


Lily of the Valley

by ScarletteStar1



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Grief, Loss, Love, Mentions of Abortion, Pining, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 14:01:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21375286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: Vanessa spends time on the moors with the Cutwifes' ghost. . . .
Relationships: Joan Clayton/Vanessa Ives, Vanessa Ives & Joan Clayton
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Lily of the Valley

She's never alone in the cottage on the moors.

The Cutwife's ghost shuffles in and out just the same as it did when it was skin and bone. Vanessa sees her sometimes just as a flicker from the corner of her eye. Other times, Joan sits and puffs away at a pipe just as plainly as she pleases.

Months pass.

While Vanessa is never alone, she certainly is oft lonely. In stillness, she learns to hear the Cutwife's voice. Gravelly and mean, it chides her, guides her, keeps her company during the long, dark winter months.

In the spring, girls come. Vanessa opens the canvas of tools on the rough wooden floor. She holds their hands, kisses their foreheads, and helps free them of their burdens. Once, there comes a girl, younger than most, and her blood flows ferociously heavy and fast. Vanessa looks up into the rafters of the cottage and bites her lip.

"Raise her hips to slow her bleeding now, Child. That's the way. Now get you to the herbs. Yarrow root and black cohash, Girl," Joan croons. "Make a tincture. Boil rags in it and pack her tight to stem her flow. She will live."

Much later, and alone, Vanessa rolls and smokes a cigarette. She sobs in tandem with the April rain outdoors. "Thank you," she whispers.

"Nah," Joan replies in a gust. "You had it in you all along, Little Scorpion." Vanessa swears she feels the dryness of Joan's lips on her own as she licks at the tears that have fallen.

"I miss you, I miss you, I_missyousomuchyouolddamncun_t!" she weeps.

"There now, there," the Cutwife's voice is naught but ash.

The moors begin to bloom with heather and herbs. Vanessa traverses them and collects medicinal treasures. She seeks deeper into the forests. A crow caws. A jay screes. A hawk threatens all in the eternal, gray sky. The raven haired beauty looks around her and does not see or feel or hear her spirit friend. A grove of trees draws her to its shade. At the base of dark, thick trunks, Vanessa finds a bunch of small flowers, their ivory bells drooping with dew. Eagerly, she plucks them from the soil and brings them to her face. Their sweetness assaults her senses and floods her brain with memories of childhood gardens, radiant and innocent.

Vanessa drops to the forest floor and recalls her youth. Her heart swells as the waxy, floral bouquet overtakes her, drags her toward the idle promise of happiness and love.

She collects as many of them as she can, wraps them in paper and places them in her basket as far from the other herbs she's collected as she can.

Back at the cottage, she finds a jar in which she puts water so she might root them.

"Ever the foolish fairy child, aren't ye?"

"No," Vanessa hisses. "I am not."

"They're poisonous and not good for much. You must know that at least," the Cutwife scolds.

"They are healing for matters of the heart," Vanessa snaps back. The cool tears on her cheek surprise her.

"Stupid girl."

"Cruel witch!"

"Oh, is that it? Yeah? Hah! Shall I leave you then? Leave you here? In this cottage with your bleeding girls and your broken heart?"

Vanessa looks across the room and sees Joan more clearly than she's seen her yet in all her time on the moors. Joan holds her pipe, unlit, at her hip, and her eyes glitter amber and gold. But more than that, Joan's shoulders dip in a concession of something Vanessa can't even name, perhaps because they slump over her chest which appears hollow or raw. Vanessa bites her tongue and then her lip. She turns away and curls into herself. She says nothing.

"Well. Very well then," the Cutwife says and evaporates more quickly than a candle blown out.

Time passes.

Vanessa prepares herself to return to London, to Grandage Place. She secures the cottage with loving care and prepares packages of dried herbs to take with her. She wishes for contentment, and yet, sorrow coats her heavier than tar. Finishing the rabbit stew, drinking her mint tea to the draughts, she flicks the stub of her cigarette into the hearth. She drags herself from the dusty sofa to take the stairs and claim her bed for one last night on the moors.

She jingles the bells in the rafters, summoning spirits of protection and peace as she makes her way to the small bed in the back of the loft. Setting her candle on the little table, she looks down on her pillow and gasps.

A slight bundle of lily of the valley lies, tied in a piece of white ribbon, upon her pillow. Vanessa picks it up and brings it to her face, inhales the sensual fragrance of delight, and kisses each and every little blossom. "Thank you, thank you," she mouths against the flowers.

"My pleasure, Girl," the ethereal voice responds immediately. "My pleasure."

**Author's Note:**

> I adore the dynamic between this pairing so much. . . and I also worship any comments. Please feel free to say hi. . I try to respond to all who reach out and I appreciate so much any who take the time to stop and read. Thank you for being here. xoxo.


End file.
